


In the Absence of Thy Hunter, Art the Harper; Art the Hart

by epphfervescent



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Affectionate Assault, Camping, Carousing and Tomfoolery, Fingon’s hair accessories, M/M, POV Fingon, POV Second Person, Werewolves, YOU THOUGHT YOU KNEW WHAT THIS WAS ABOUT, YOU THOUGHT. FUCK YOU, campfire songs, misuse of warhorses, werewolf!mae, you know how you go camping with your boyfriend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22147174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epphfervescent/pseuds/epphfervescent
Summary: Fingon makes expedition of the wild places of Dor-lomin, with Maedhros in tow, and has a great time. Fingon’s horse’s best hope is that it got ahold of some bad acid.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Kudos: 19





	In the Absence of Thy Hunter, Art the Harper; Art the Hart

**Author's Note:**

> You dock tails, actually, and crop ears, but we’ll have to forgive our intrepid himbo for not knowing that.

Drowning out the crackling campfire tuning your harp, you look over at the face of your warm backrest. The flames bring out all the reds dormant in the black-brown of his coat and, unwittingly, turn his long-suffering stare into a deadly looking glower.

All expressions from the man and all actions from the hound come out darker like that, in this form. But as the days wear by you find yourself minding—even noticing—less and less.

You can’t say you’re surprised.

“Here is a tune you might recognize,” you tell your companion, and pluck the strings as you did on the peaks of Thangorodrim.

It was never an important piece. You don’t even remember if the bards in Valinor wrote it down. It’s a folk tune, a fire song, and that’s precisely why you won’t tell any of those bards—even Maglor—what you played when you rescued Maedhros. They’ll make it high and important and rename it something awful with ‘Requiem’ in it, and ruin it. The commonness, that fond, familiar _memory_ was why you couldn’t stop thinking about it on your hike in Hell in the first place.

But in the foothills between Nevrast and Dor-lómin, there’s no one to listen but you and the great wolf of Angband half-asleep at your back. You play those first few notes and he rouses with them, recognition breaking across the lupine face.

You draw in a breath, lift up your voice—

And howl.

Not even the eerie singing of a true-born wolf (you don’t have anything like the throat for the half-human, nightmare shriek of the werewolves, and besides you aren’t aiming to be cruel), but the chatter-yell of a talkative sled dog. 

The caterwauling echoes off the trees. You hear your horse, picketed at the edge of the campsite, snort in surprise and feel more than see your companion glowering with intent, now.

Regardless, you aren’t the kind to back down from a course or a joke and are prepared to bawl through a whole song, but then you’re—slapped? Slapped, about the face by a long, wet sheet of sandpaper.

“Maedhros—!” you yelp, dropping your harp with a discordant jangle of strings, in time with the chime of your earrings smacking your pinna. The force of the clout shoves you sprawling into his flank. 

“Did you _l_ —you can’t _lick me offensively_ , you gangling bastard!” you splutter.

Unnatural as it _should_ be, Maedhros’ face in this form is primed for human emotion. He’s looking down at you with a lot of that, and nothing close to remorse. You reach up and find why—there’s more hair tugged out of your braid than still in it, spiked up in a damp tuft.

Betrayed, you tamp down the mutant cowlick. “That violates—so many rules of engagement! Excessive use of force. I’ll tell the King. That’s _my best hair ribbon_ , don’t you _dare_ eat it, you cur, I’ll—dock your ears.”

Maedhros lets you tug back the stolen ribbon amiably enough but seems nonplussed at the threat, starting upthat gurgling growl.

“Oh don’t laugh at me.” Futzing with soggy ribbon and soggy braid alike, you grouse, “You’re a terrible pet,” and throw yourself back against his belly. The hyena-gurgle roils to a boil, making it so you feel you’re pouting against an earthquake.

On the fields of Ard-galen at the Glorious Battle, in different mouths, that sound was full of malice and sent shivers down your spine. Indeed your horse, a fearless destrier who bore you through dragon fire—and _that_ took some charm, explaining to your stable master that yes, you need a charger to go camping—pulls nervously at the picket.

It drives _you_ to poke a jowl into teeth that could take your hand far more lazily than you took their owner’s, and dodge the answering elbow—or, ankle maybe. Not so for the snout jabbed in your gut. You let out an ‘ _oof_ ’ and in retaliation flick him hard in the nose, and at that Maedhros blinks in such _exaggerated_ surprise and sneezes so violently, that then it’s you laughing.The thump of hoof into loam picks up behind you and, ever responsible, Maedhros concedes, letting both you and the horse be as you gasp to recover.

Truth be told, you lost track when the poking started, but your face is drying _tacky_ and so you’re sure you must still be the wronged party here. You take your vengeance cycling through Telerin bar tunes (you skip the most raucous of them to spare the horse).

It’s a canine groan you get from Maedhros, flopped back on the grass, but _some_ things don’t change: you pretend you’re anything like a bard, and Maedhros pretends to mind.

**Author's Note:**

> FUCK’S SAKE, Fingon, he’s not even a SEXY dog, don’t fuck the dog—oh no he’s got airpods in, he can’t hear me. Oh No.
> 
> I’m on tumblr w/ the same url but it’s #Nasty, fair warning.


End file.
